


A Sight for Sore Eyes

by b3tty



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Angst, Coming Out, Drunk confessions, F/M, M/M, Self-Indulgent, steve and bucky survived the war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:35:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27492790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/b3tty/pseuds/b3tty
Summary: Post WWII AU in which Bucky never fell and Steve never got put under ice so here they are, in 1946, coping (or maybe not coping) with post-war America.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers
Comments: 5
Kudos: 19





	A Sight for Sore Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> This is an entirely self-induldgent two part piece in which Bucky manages to get drunk and press the self-destruct button on his life. No one asked for it but I just love confession writing and Bucky Barnes in 1940s attire. Does feature coming out and homophobic prejudices which may be triggering to some - take care of yourselves first and foremost!! 
> 
> Happy reading x
> 
> *edit*   
> I've really struggled to write a second part and I think the conclusion I've come to is that this is going to remain a oneshot idea for now unless inspiration strikes again!

It’s warm this summer, much warmer than the last, and the streets seem to buzz with sweat and insects. Bucky always preferred the winter before the war, but since coming home the cold has been nothing but a reminder of nights spent in half drowned tents listening to someone, somewhere screaming. Even though Brooklyn smells like the insole of an old shoe, it beats the memories. Despite all the windows being open, Bucky’s apartment is still managing to maintain the temperature of an oven, and it’s making him miserable. Days off from work are always miserable anyway, but there’s something about sitting around with sweat soaking through his shirt that really grinds his mood to a temper.

Bucky is still adjusting to living alone. All his life he’s been the big brother to someone; his family or Steve or the boys in the war barely old enough to light their own cigarettes. But now, he’s alone, and it hits hard on days away from the SSR. Having no one to care for is not something Bucky ever expected to experience and yet here he is, with not a soul to worry about. It makes him feel a bit sick to think about how entirely devoid of dependency he is these days. He flicks the page over in the book he’s half-heartedly reading and takes a drag on the straight between his fingers. The taste makes him hotter and he grimaces, wishing the sun would go down and give the city a chance to breathe.

There’s a knock on the door that sends ash falling like snow from the end of the cigarette as Bucky’s hand jerks involuntarily. The effects of the war don’t seem to be waning much. He isn’t all together surprised to see Steve standing outside his front door; sometimes it’s as if they’re still cohabiting with the amount of time he spends here. He looks bigger than usual and Bucky clocks immediately the tension in his shoulders and his chest, like he’s ready for a fight. Steve doesn’t smile and the absence of a greeting sends ice to Bucky’s heart despite the sweltering heat.

Ever since Bucky was 15, he’s known he was different. Not in a quirky way, but in an illegal way. In a way that meant he had to stop looking when Steve got out of the shower. In a way that meant he could never let himself get drunk in case he did something stupid. Steve would always be his closest friend, but there are things too complicated for some friendships to bear. Being in love with Steve was one of those things.

Bucky has learnt by now how to not let it hurt when Steve talks about Peggy, or when he sees them hold each other when they dance. When your best friend is Captain America, you quickly get used to women fawning around, tripping over themselves for a smile or a wink. There’s a thick wall around Bucky’s heart and only the toughest bullets get through, the rest is just a dull, heart-thudding ache. It doesn’t stop Bucky’s eyes lingering too long when Steve isn’t looking, and it certainly doesn’t stop a golden light illuminating in his heart whenever Steve shows up announced at his front door like this. It just stops the splitting pain in his chest when Steve touches his arm or tells a joke in his ear with breath warm enough to melt an iceberg.

‘Hey Buck,’ He says with a sigh, halfway through the door and already frowning at the mess of the room. To be fair, now Bucky thinks about it, he should really make more of an effort not to leave the washing up for four days.

‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’ Bucky says, though he knows Steve hardly keeps any regular hours at the SSR. He’s more of a ‘call-me-if-you-need-me’ employee and that suits them all just fine most of the time.

‘Don’t go there.’ Steve says with a scowl that looks entirely unnatural on his face. A slither of blonde hair falls out of place and casts a dull shadow on his forehead. Bucky tries not to notice too much.

‘What’s Stark done now?’ Bucky grins a little. To say that Howard and Steve don’t see eye to eye would be putting it mildly; hardly a day goes by without them bickering. Howard is brash and cocky and concerned mainly with himself. Bucky likes him, but he can see why Steve doesn’t.

Steve’s shoulders tense under the blue cotton of his shirt and he leans against one of the kitchen counters, careful not to knock any of the crockery piling up. Bucky waits expectantly, still near the door. The apartment is at least three times the size of the one he’d shared with Steve and when he’s alone, it feels vast. Steve fills it a little now, but the distance between them is still too large for Bucky’s liking, though he supposes he might be a little bias.

‘Nothing.’ Steve pouts and Bucky’s eyebrows involuntarily raise. ‘No it’s nothing. It’s not really Stark. It’s nothing, honestly.’

It’s Bucky’s turn to sigh and he crosses the room to lean beside Steve, just close enough to feel the heat coming off him. At least the sun is losing some of its intensity now. He offers Steve the cigarette and watches as his lips curl around it, his chest rising a little with the inhale. Steve scrunches his nose up as he exhales. It still feels alien to watch. Bucky can’t help but listen for the cough that used to follow every time Steve encountered smoke, leaving them both scrambling for his inhaler, but there is only silence. It is a stark reminder that Steve doesn’t need him anymore and the realisation settles uncomfortably in his stomach like a stone.

‘How’s your day off?’ Steve asks after a while, turning his head to look at Bucky. He wishes he’d showered today so his hair didn’t look so matted and sweaty, though he’s sure Steve hardly even sees him.

‘Fine,’ Bucky pauses, and then adds: ‘lonely.’

‘You still not asked for that girl at the diner’s number?’ Steve nudges his arm with an elbow and the motion unbalances Bucky for a second. He shrugs,

‘She’s not my type.’

‘No one is your type!’ Steve shakes his head with a quiet laugh and the words twist Bucky’s gut. He imagines telling Steve that he has a very specific type; tall, blonde, blue eyes, stubborn and proud and in the business of fighting any battle he can find.

‘What can I say? I’m picky.’ He says instead, wishing he hadn’t finished the straight so he had something to do with his hands. ‘How’s Peg?’

Steve’s face clouds over a little when Bucky asks. It’s unusual; Steve’s eyes sparkle when he talks about Peggy most of the time, Bucky knows, he’s watched. There’s a sticky silent moment that screams to be broken and then Steve says;

‘Let’s go out.’

‘What?’ Bucky frowns.

‘Let’s go out, to a bar or dancing or something.’ Steve moves all at once, pushing a hand through his hair, daring it to fall out of place again.

‘Steve it’s 5 o’clock on a Tuesday,’ Bucky laughs, but he straightens up. It’s rare to see Steve so keen to have fun, he never really drank before the serum and now, well it would take all the alcohol in the state to make him feel tipsy. It takes a fair amount to touch Bucky these days too.

‘I know I know,’ He looks sheepishly at the floor, ‘I could just use something to take my mind off things.’

Bucky doesn’t often say no to Steve and he isn’t about to start now. The loneliness threatens to come calling the second he’s alone; anything to avoid that can’t be a bad idea. Steve is already smiling, recognising his victory here, though there’s still a shadow lingering on his gaze.

‘Fine,’ Bucky returns the grin and it feels almost genuine. He turns and finds two glasses in one of the cupboard, leaning awkwardly around Steve to retrieve a bottle of bourbon from a shelf behind his head. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get it.’

‘You don’t have to be a sarcastic jerk all the time,’ Steve returns, standing even more in the way so Bucky’s arm is forced to rest against the side of his waist.

‘Do you want a drink or not?’ It’s only when Bucky turns his head over his shoulder to talk that he realises how close his face is to Steve’s. A wave of heat catapults through his body. It takes a large swallow of air to hide the feeling and Bucky can only pray his face isn’t as flushed as he suddenly feels.

Steve holds his gaze for a second before laughing to himself and turning, grabbing the bottle in his own hand. They both take a long first drink in silence. When the glass is empty, Bucky tells Steve he’s going for a shower without meeting his eye. Even the cold water can’t seem to wash away the heat burning in his body. He jerks off thinking about all the ways he could take Steve’s mind off ‘things’ and hopes to god that the alcohol manages to touch him tonight. Otherwise, it could be a very long evening.

‘She said that I just don’t understand anymore,’ Steve’s voice is loud, ‘what is that supposed to mean?’

Bucky takes a swig of his drink in reply. It’s late and the bar around them is full for a Tuesday.

‘I hate it, she treats me like a kid sometimes. Like all I’m capable of thinking about is fighting off bad guys with fists and that stupid shield,’

‘I mean,’ Bucky starts with a smile. It makes Steve laugh, at least, but there’s a sadness in it. Peggy and him only argue very occasionally, and then it’s usually over by the next mealtime. This, though, this feels big. Bucky is somewhere near his tenth drink and the edges of his thoughts are beginning to turn fuzzy. Thank god.

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be so angry about it,’

‘From what you’ve told me you have plenty to be angry about.’ Bucky’s tone is more malicious than he intended; his deep rooted instinct to stop any harm coming to Steve ever is threatening to rear its head, ‘You’re more than just some big showy soldier.’

‘She keeps telling me we can’t win this war with men like me.’ The words fall with a thud out of Steve’s mouth and Bucky tries not to picture Peggy saying them. Were they lying in bed at the time? Did Steve try to kiss her to make it better? Bucky hates her for not kissing him back.

Steve finishes his drink in one swallow and grimaces. Bucky follows suit, desperate to stop the anger in his stomach rising up. Steve is old enough to handle this on his own. He doesn’t need him anymore.

‘How are you still upright?’ Steve asks, his eyes flitting between the dozen glasses between them.

Bucky has told Steve before that some things feel different since Austria; how he can run for miles and miles without breaking a sweat, or how the wounds that would usually scar him disappear in days now. But Steve, to his credit, has never pried far into the topic. Bucky hates thinking about it, let alone talking about it. There’s a lot he could say that would set Steve’s jaw in defensive anger, but bile rises in his throat every time something reminds me of that godforsaken room. He’d come so close to death he could taste it through the blood in his mouth.

‘Doesn’t hit me like it used to,’ Is the only answer Bucky gives, but he knows Steve can see in his eyes exactly what that means. Something happened to his body on that table which is never going away.

‘Better get another round then,’ Steve winks and Bucky resists the urge to slam his head into the table as a guttural punch of longing hits him square on.

It takes four more drinks for him to be as drunk as he’d like to be, though he doesn’t realise it until they’re walking (or stumbling) back through Brooklyn towards his apartment. The night is nearly as hot as the day. Steve is laughing at something he’s said and the sound is so clear in the still air it seems to cut through Bucky’s soul.

‘Careful,’ Steve says, and his fingers graze the back of Bucky’s shoulder. It feels electric. He tries to remember the last time he was drunk, but it seems like a long, long time ago. It’s sure to wear off soon anyway but for right now, he relishes the cushioned edges of every thought.

‘Y’know what you should do?’ Bucky says once they’re back in the apartment. There’s another drink in his hand, the bottle now empty. Steve is sat opposite him at the wooden kitchen table. The light casts gorgeous shadows across his face and Bucky forgets what he’s saying for a moment,

‘What’s that?’

‘You should tell Peggy what you told me.’ Steve raises an eyebrow at him, ‘that you’re not dumb, you’re more than what they made you in the war, you’re the guy you were before all that and she should respect that.’

Steve smiles at the floor.

‘Just tell her how you feel, how much it hurts you.’ Bucky says and then almost laughs at how hypocritical he’s being. _Just tell him how you feel._ The words feel as though they’re taunting him.

‘Yeah ‘cause you know so much about telling girls how you feel right?’ Steve’s eyes crinkle with a smile but the words shoot straight for the heart. Bucky doesn’t do enough to hide it and the smile on Steve’s face falls instantly. ‘I’m sorry Buck, that was mean.’

‘It’s alright Steve,’ He says but the words are shaking without his permission.

‘No it’s not, all I’ve done all night is complain about Peg without even thinking about you,’ another knife to the heart, ‘you’ll find someone, you will. Hell, I don’t know why you haven’t already, you’re the-,’

Steve catches Bucky’s eye and stops, lips falling together. Maybe Bucky looks like he’s going to cry because he sure feels like it. Steve’s eyes are a shade of blue Bucky has never seen anywhere else and he curses that colour for daring to exist in a world as cold and colourless as this one.

‘Sorry. I’m lucky to have her, I shouldn’t complain.’ Steve is cool as ever. Bucky wishes he could feel that calm, that certain.

‘She’s lucky to have you too.’ Bucky says, knowing the words will mean more to him than anyone who so happens to hear them from his lips. He finishes his drink, desperate for the heartache to go away.

And then he says it.

‘Steve I need to tell you something.’

He says it without thinking; the words leave his mouth without permission and dance in the air like the deviants they are. Steve is halfway to the bathroom but his footsteps fall dead in the room. Bucky, reeling from shock and adrenalin and whiskey in his veins, closes his eyes. He feels like he’s on the edge of something which just might kill him and he doesn’t know why his instincts are telling him to let this dark, bland room to be filled with everything he’s felt since adolescence.

‘I need to tell you something,’ He repeats, breathing through the words as if oxygen could save him now. He doesn’t know why he’s doing this. It’s suicide. Maybe that’s why. ‘And you’re going to hate me,’

Steve walks back to his seat. His eyebrows are knitted together but his hands are steady. Bucky can’t bring himself to look at those eyes again; not when he knows he’s about to lose them from his life forever.

‘I could never hate you Buc-,’

‘I’m in fucking love with you Steve.’ Bucky says it slowly, his voice is low and it catches in his throat. He begs himself not to cry, to maintain a slither of dignity. If Steve reacts, he makes no noise. ‘I’m in love with you.’

Silence. Deep, throbbing silence sits between them like it never has before.

‘What?’ Steve’s voice is equally quiet. He doesn’t sound angry, though, and at the word Bucky braves a look at his face. It is utterly broken.

‘You heard me. I’m in love with you. I’m gay.’ Bucky isn’t sure if the words are coming out right. His tongue feels swollen in his mouth but his chest feels lighter. So much lighter.

‘What do you mean? You can’t just say th-,’

‘I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you since we were in tenth grade. I’ve loved no one else and I never will and there’s nothing you can do about it.’ Bucky doesn’t know why he’s stood up, but he is and there’s a bit of hair that won’t stop falling into his eye and he thinks that if he has to take one more breath of air in this apartment he will explode.

But Steve stands up too, his eyes intense. This must be the anger Bucky is expecting. He braces himself for god knows what. The room shifts a little, like a maze changing shape.

‘You know this can’t happen.’ Steve says and Bucky can’t help but laugh. It’s a mean, spiteful laugh and in that second he hopes Steve feels a semblance of the hurt he’s been feeling for years, ‘Bucky.’

‘I know Steve. You’ll be married soon and there’ll be loads of tiny versions of you being dropped off at my lonely old man apartment for babysitting and I’ll grin and bear it because what I am can’t exist. I know, I know it every fucking day.’ The words are slurred and bitter but Bucky doesn’t care anymore.

It’s only when Steve walks out, slamming the front door, that Bucky does care. He’s too drunk to cry but he can feel his heart splitting in two. It hurts more than anything ever has before, and that’s saying something. Not even a goodbye. An emptiness settles in his chest, too heavy to allow any anger to pass through, even though it’s his own stupid fault for ever saying anything. The pain feels inevitable and, in some sadistic way, incredibly deserved.

The alcohol wears off in an hour and Bucky is left with nothing to numb the loss. He rests his forehead on his arms at the table and, desperately, begs sleep to take the rest of the night away from him.


End file.
